


Warp and Weft

by Arya_Greenleaf



Series: Twitter Fic [15]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Corsetry, Emperor Hux, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 15:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17389241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: Smoothing his hands around the gentle taper of his waist, every subcutaneous granule yearns for the feel of firm -- close -- stable -- tight -- control.





	Warp and Weft

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to twitter.

The morning light is grey, the atmosphere wet and somber. It is not untypical of the autumnal season on Arkanis. There is something beautiful about it that did not exist, or perhaps went unnoticed, when Hux was young.

It is not often that he has the occasion to spend so much time on-planet. Everything about the weeks he has drifted through the halls of the former senatorial palace has a gauzy, heavy quality in his mind; just like the air in the brief moments that rain does not fall. The depleted clouds are as rare as the stretch of unpurchased hours Hux has stretched out before him in the crypt-silent halls of the residential wing. 

His skin is cool and clammy in the unheated rooms, damp from the bath and shining with the smoke-sharp oil rubbed over his flesh. He discards his robe in a careless trail across the threshold and continues, shoulders back and chest forward. His feet leave ghosts in his wake, voids in the microdrop blanket spread across the slate floor. The heavy glass doors that let in the weak light of the morning have been left open.

Hux will have a word with the staff. Carelessness from _them_  won't be tolerated. The fine things in this room are worth more than their skins, he won't see them ruined by the relentless moisture of the planet.

He stretches, letting the Arkanisian morning envelop him for just a moment before he pulls the heavy doors shut. He stands there in the slice of daylight the doors allow, turning his hands over and examining the network of blue and the play of tendons under his skin. The light just barely catches the hair on his arms and legs, the careless trail of it around his navel and close-cropped coppice of his groin. He shimmers softly. His back aches just as softly and he knows what he needs, wants. Smoothing his hands around the gentle taper of his waist, every subcutaneous granule yearns for the feel of firm -- close -- stable -- tight -- control.

Hux moves to one of several closets, the polished wood of the doors slick under his fingertips and the heavy pull solid in his palm. The doors swing open easily, hinges silent in spite of the atmosphere.

Everything on Arkanis is prone to rust, to crumbling and rot. This room is well protected from that detriment if the staff remembers to follow instruction.

Within the closet float disembodied forms; the sliding shelves fitted with tall pegs that support them. This is Kylo's favorite part, if only he were here -- selecting the exoskeletal decoration to adorn Hux, to hold him close and secure. It feels almost like some small betrayal to do this alone, though dressing together is hardly their norm. It is the mood of the day, Hux thinks, little atrocities to pepper the time before Kylo and his fellows return with the prizes of their task.

Hux selects a piece to match the day, dove grey and heavy, and lifts the form from its place in the closet. On the table he lays it down, admiring how it holds its shape against gravity's push, even briefly after the fine-worked busk is seperated & the corset is freed from the from.

The form itself mimics Hux's altered shape, more full to accomodate the corset with its loosened laces. He's shouted at Kylo more than once that he should take one to bed. Hux can't help but to smile now, Kylo's last night before departure playing in the back of his mind. They'd fought, hefting verbal spears through the air, slapping and biting. Hux had told him not to return if he would return a failure.

There was something between them, even at great distance, that told him failture had not come to fruition.

Hux moves the form away and runs his hands over the fine stitching of the corset. It is still in perfect condition, no rust around the gromets and no fraying of fabric or thread. He lifts it and it is heavy -- _present_. He drapes it around his torso, holding it to himself with the clutch of his elbows. He snaps his fingers, "You there."

The droid in the corner comes to life in its charging station, rolling forward on its wheels toward Hux.

"Assist."

Its arms extend, sillicone capped fingers ready.

"Hold this up."

The fingers curl around Hux's ribs, holding the corset upright and in place while he fastens the busk.

"Hand me the cords."

The droid does as it's told, picking the long cords up from where they dangle at Hux's back and handing one to each side of him.

"Dismissed."

The droid makes a sound like it is questioning its orders, grippy fingers resting on the crisscross of laces at Hux's back.

"I said, _dismissed_ ," Hux says in a tone that brokers no dissent. The droid rolls back to its station and slips into standby.

Hux foregoes the grand mirror, watching his reflection in the glass of the doors, the bright whiteness of himself bold against the grey of the garment and the sky outside.

He turns his wrists, wrapping the central pull cords around his hands. He breathes deep and slow, sinking into the firm hug of the corset as it tightens, losing slack. He starts at the top then, hooking his thumbs into each _X_ of the laces and tugging.

He shivers, stomach turning over with deep delight as the laces slide against his skin and sail through each grommet. He repeats the process at the bottom, working his way upward toward the narrowest point of his waist at the pull cords.

Slack dangling, tickling around his legs and ankles, he breathes deep, straightening his spine one vertebra at a time, feeling the cushion of fibrous gel between each pair as it compresses and relaxes. He twists his arms, pull cords wrapping easily around elbow and forearm. The flesh of his back bunches and folds between his shoulder blades. He pulls -- and pulls.

The bones of this corset are heavy springs. They mold his body and mold to his body. They sit against his ribs and his hips, tethering him to the ground with their weight.

He shifts and pulls, feeling them within their carefully formed channels. The inches of his waist melt away. He gasps, feeling the two sides of the corset meet in the back, no more slack to speak of. He curls his toes against the floor and closes his eyes, basking in the security and closeness of the corset. He ties the pull cords in a neat bow, doubling them over so they don't drag.

The press of the boning and heavy fabric is tight but not uncomfortable, though even after years of practice Hux must stop and take several breaths having spent weeks unlaced.

He leans forward, body straight and strong and adjusts the high _V_ of the corset around his chest; first swiping one hand from underarm to midline and then the other.

He straightens and sighs, moving his hands over the panels and following the lines to the bottom, below his navel where it rests prettily against his pelvis.

Comfortable at long last, Hux leaves the dressing room, settling in the parlor. Though his morning is unscheduled, the demands of the galaxy never stop. He lowers himself onto the chaise with his datapad and begins with the most urgent memorandum for review.

Chilled, especially now that he is still, he thinks of asking for a fire to be stoked in the grate. He shouldn't have sent the staff entirely away and let the old one die. There is gooseflesh raising on his arms and legs, making his hair raise on end.

He leans, a little lazy, propping his chin on his fist while he scans the room. His cape stands on the tailor's form near the window. It's newly commissioned, still partially unfinished, designed for the chill and damp of Arkanis. Much like himself, he muses while he lifts himself gracefully from the chaise.

The wool is smooth and soft, shorn from some native species. It has natrually repellant properties to its advantage -- water resistance, unfavorable for the microbes and fungus that are so prevalant in the damp. Hux lifts it carefully, mindful that there may be pins hidden somewhere.

The red dye looks impossibly bright in the dilute light against his pale hands. He swings it over his shoulders and settles it in place. It has physical weight, like a planet with more gravity than one is accustomed to. There is near-immediate warmth. The wool is so different, so fluid. It pools around his feet on the floor, not yet trimmed for hemming.

Hux wobbles on his feet for a moment, feeling so wholly settled in his skin under the heft cape and the within the embrace of the corset. His fingers grasp the loops just inside the edging and pull the cape closed around himself.

He is a riot of _texture_ and _weight_ and _pressure_ bottled into a human-shaped container.

There is a polite knock at the parlor door and he calls out that whomever it is may enter. He cannot help the flush high on his cheeks or the terrible fluff of his clean hair in the weird Arkanisian humidity, there's no good reason to forbid them audience.

"Sir, the Ren have returned. They're entering atmo now, you wished for notification."

"Very well," he answers, watching the page's reflection in the window. The door shuts, sealing Hux in the parlor with its lack of warmth.

Kylo will likely be piloting, he won't allow someone else at the yoke if he has a choice. Hux is never sure if after long absences like these he will choose to write his report first or bring himself immediately to Hux.

Some whisper through the walls, through the fabric hugged around him, said that the latter would be true.

Kylo's reports were as thrilling as having him bodily, sometimes. The detail was incredible. Hux could close his eyes and imagine himself in the cockpit of the Silencer or holding the hilt of the saber. Having Kylo whisper the report in his ear was transcendental. Perhaps, he would do that this morning. Hux was already reeling from sensation, he may as well outright swoon.

It's several minutes before his parlor door opens again and Kylo's dark form fills the frame.

"If you're here then I'll assume you haven't failed."

"Of course I haven't." Kylo's voice is deep and gruff like he's been screaming. "I'm insulted that you'd entertain the idea."

He shoulders over the threshold and hefts a cryotank onto the low table. Mist rolls off of the sides of the tank and floats to the floor where it spreads around his boots.

"You'll need to commission a new display soon."

Kylo's eyes are haunting when his gaze falls on Hux -- their deep amber shot through with veins of bright gold. The sockets are purpled with lack of sleep and though Hux knows that will fade, the odd puce traces of the capillaries won't. He's too far gone to whatever part of the Force fuels him.

Hux presses his palm to his belly beneath the cape, steadying himself while he watches Kylo stride across the room. He still has faint red welts along his jaw, even after so much time since Hux left them there.

"I felt you," Hux says. "Your return."

"I let you."

Kylo steps up close and Hux moves away, backstepping onto the tailor's box. He's taller than Kylo this way by a head. "Tell me how you did it, how you got close enough."

Kylo looks him over, smirk appearing and vanishing. He fingers the edge of the cape and Hux lets it go. The cold of the room rushes in, chasing away the warmth of his core trapped beneath. Kylo's hands are hot, always. The calluses on his fingers and palms snag against Hux's smooth skin and his new gooseflesh is from more than cold.

Kylo doesn't speak, though Hux can see in his mind his flight through hyperspace -- his landing -- his covert approach.

Kylo's hands are heavy against the corset. They press against Hux's sternum and follow the line of the busk, pausing over each of the fine metal closures. His fingers trace against the weave of the fabric, zooming along the weft as his hands circle Hux's waist. Trimmed down as he is, Hux muses that it wouldn't be entirely impossible for Kylo's fingers to meet. He leans into the touch, his hips tipping toward Kylo and the cape slipping back on his shoulders. He puts his hands firmly on Kylo's, anchoring himself.

In his mind Hux can see the interior of the building Kylo and his Knights infiltrated -- hear their soft steps echo through the catacombs -- see the guards fall.

Kylo squeezes his waist and Hux imagines he can feel the tight coil of the boning bending under the force. He thinks he can feel each thread of the fabric as it makes microscopic tracks in his skin. Kylo rubs his palms hard over the flare of Hux's hips and he frowns -- not unhappy but overwhelmed.

In his mind he sees the Moff who betrayed them -- sold information off to the higest bidder -- sees him beg for his life, for those of his cohorts.

Kylo touches Hux's skin and digs his thumbs into the grove of his iliac furrow, following down from the line of the corset. He presses his face to Hux's chest, breathing deeply. His hands caress the gentle slope of Hux's belly, the curve shaped by the press of his chosen drape.

Hux's feels both like he is trapped in his body beneath Kylo and the cape and the corset -- as well as if he is floating outside of it all. In his mind the Moff's body falls. His own body rises in Kylo's embrace, bending against the will of the rigid garment. Kylo's hands move, fingers pressing hard lines into his thighs and gripping his backside.

"Enough," Hux slurs. He breathes deeply, filling his stomach and chest with it just to feel the resistance of the corset. "Get that thing out of here. Come back when you've completed your duties."

Kylo's mouth leaves a wet mark against Hux's chest when he lifts his head. The absence of his hands leaves Hux cold again. "Of course," he says, thick and low. His jaw has a jealous set and he makes no subtle show of how his fingers catch in the lowest cross of the laces, tugging harshly as he pull-pushes away.

Hux watches him pick up the cryotank by the handle, the steel shell making a hollow sound as it scrapes across the table. The mist has dissipated, none curling and floating as he swings it at his side. Hux turns back to the window releases his breath. The glass fogs, even as the predictable Arkanisian sky opens and rain falls heavily against the pane.

**Author's Note:**

> There are plenty of online resources if you are interested in tightlacing and waist training. Please engage safely and responsibly to protect both your body (first and foremost) and the investment piece you will be using. Season your corset properly and don't wear it tighter than you should for your body. The Hux depicted here is an experienced corset wearer.
> 
> You can find me on twitter and [tumblr.](http://avaahren.tumblr.com)


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